


Broken Glass

by fjalamoth



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bleak, M/M, No actual spoilers just speculation, This basically assumes that the worst case scenario is going to happen, Unrequited Love, poor Oswald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8501176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fjalamoth/pseuds/fjalamoth
Summary: Oswald's world is tumbling down. He should be quite used to that by now. He's not.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All the speculation about the future episodes was getting me down so I had to write something last minute before episode 8 potentially breaks my heart. I wrote it in a hurry so if you spot something wonky, don't be afraid to point it out. Let's hope that the canon is kinder to these characters than I am.

Oswald's world is tumbling down. He should be quite used to that by now. He's not.

Somehow he always figured that it would end soon, that he'd either die or finally become powerful enough to feel truly comfortable and safe in his own skin. Power gets you respect, power makes you untouchable. Or it should. He's never been any good at keeping his head down, always chasing after that elusive something, grabbing hold of every possibility that comes his way. Ever since he was a strange unpopular little boy, who grew up to be a strange unpopular young man, Oswald has been cursed with endless ambition and the quick mind needed to let him realize it. And even as it has propelled him from the lowly position of umbrella boy to a man of status and importance wielding singular power over a whole city, it has also cost him many things. Too many.

But he's still breathing. Fish Mooney, Marone, Falcone, they all fucked him over and he fucked them over right back and got away with it. Mother died and something inside Oswald broke and could never be put right again, but he survived. Ed stitched him back together, showed him that he wasn't alone, sang Mother's songs, shared with him his own darkness. Oswald wasn't okay, not by a mile, but he wasn't living as if he were halfway dead anymore either.  Then came Arkham. Arkham twisted him into a shell of his former self, but that proved to be an opportunity in disguise as it enabled him to meet his long-lost father. It also enabled him to discover that, contrary to commonly stated wisdom, revenge is a dish best served warm—and well cooked.

Like a cat he keeps landing on his feet, but even cats only have nine lives. Sooner or later his luck must run out. And it has, in a way. He's still alive, but right now he's not sure that he wants to be.

Ed.

Just thinking about him hurts. He'd promised to be there for Oswald. He promised. And now it's all gone to shit and it's his fault, his, his, his —he doesn't know if it's Ed or himself that he's pointing at, or both. Ed has turned against him and it's an act of unthinkable betrayal. But it's Oswald's own failure to manipulate the situation at hand, to  anticipate the consequences of his actions, that has led to this. And that is a deep betrayal of the self. The kindness that Ed showed him, the friendship that kept Oswald together after Mother's passing, the hope that swelled in his heart as he was elected Mayor, it's all twisted now, the past irrevocably tainted by the present.     

At first he'd felt white hot rage that someone else dared intrude on his newly discovered love. No— that's not true, at first he'd just felt devastated. Like a punch to the gut, a kick to the diaphragm. (He of all people would know what that feels like. Pain is familiar.)

It's a stunning explosion of hurt. _Then_ the rage kicks in.

She must die. It's obvious. Even if she wasn't blatantly suspicious, and she is, oh she is,  she's in his way.

It's no decision at all it's just impulse and reaction.

 

And then she's dead and she's truly in his way, forever.

 

Figures that killing the doppelganger of the dead girlfriend is the one thing that Ed can't forgive. Hypocrite.

There's hatred in his feelings for Ed now, but it's all jumbled up in hurt and lingering affection. He can't control it. It's disgusting. He disgusts himself.

No wonder Butch betrayed him. There's always been something about Oswald that puts other people off. He'd thought he'd finally escaped that —hello, mister Mayor!—but it's all been a cruel delusion. A joke. And once more, he's the butt of the joke. Mother truly was the one person he could ever trust and now she's dead. She's dead, and she's never coming back, and he can erect all the statues of her in the world and she's still rotting away in the cold ground because of him. His dear sweet Mother. Ed told him that she would have been proud of him, but Ed is a filthy liar, and Oswald is all the more the pathetic fool for having believed him.

Sometimes Oswald can't remember Mother's voice. He wakes up in a cold sweat, icy panic twisting his insides, grasping at the memories he has of her as if that would preserve them better. She used to sing. Now when he leans against the bar counter and closes his eyes he only hears Ed's singing, and that makes him punch the wall in a fit of rage and fear and the pain helps, it does help, for a brief moment. Then it just hurts.

He wonders if one or more of his knuckles are broken. He flexes his fingers. Painful, but all in working order. Probably not broken then. He misses Butch. Butch is a traitor. He needs another drink.

If Ed truly had cared for him, he would have forgiven him. If Ed truly had cared for him, he wouldn't have run off with that …with that …with her. Here he, Oswald, was ready to open up his heart to Ed, and Ed just coldly cast him aside like he was yesterday's news. Truly, a man could be driven to murder by less.

Oswald had loved Ed's eyes. The way they had crinkled at the corners when he looked at him, as if fondly, had made his heart beat faster. Ed's never going to look at him fondly again. Was there ever any fondness though, or was that just another thing that Oswald had imagined? He'd made fun of Butch over his foolish love for Tabitha, while all along it had been him, Oswald, playing the part of the pathetic lovestruck fool.

The liquor threatens to spill even though the glass is only half full. The surface is moving, prompted by the swaying of his hand, and it mesmerizes him, like an ocean in miniature. He imagines that the pain he feels inside is like that liquid, sloshing around in the glass that is his heart. Then he throws the glass right against the counter and it shatters into a million pieces.

 


End file.
